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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596129">To Serve and Protect</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsbymeganmichael/pseuds/wordsbymeganmichael'>wordsbymeganmichael</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Once Upon a Time (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Detective Killian AU, F/M, Modern AU, just guns and stalkers, no magic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:07:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,806</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596129</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsbymeganmichael/pseuds/wordsbymeganmichael</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Killian Jones has been investigating a stalker-turned-murderer for months by the time he follows Emma Swan home from the bar. But when he thinks he sees the very man in question outside her apartment, can he separate his feelings for her and his need to keep her safe?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s been three weeks, and she still hasn’t noticed him. He likes when they notice him— that’s when he moves, when he strikes and takes them down, is when they notice him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And he </span>
  </em>
  <span>really </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants this one to notice him. He’s let a few of them go, a few that he started watching and decided he didn’t like as much as he thought he did, but he knows the ones that see him are done. Once they see him, he knows that he is going to be the last thing that they see. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But, unlike ever before, he is going to be patient. She is the one he has been searching for, his main target and his reason for coming to Storybrooke. There is something about her, something about the way the street lights and the moonlight reflect off her golden curls, reminds him of the young woman she used to be. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So far, none of the women he has found have been right, because none of them have been </span>
  </em>
  <span>her</span>
  <em>
    <span>. He has either let them go, or made sure they can no longer go anywhere else. But this one— it’s time, he has decided. Time to focus his efforts on finding exactly what he has been looking for. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>——— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With her long, blonde curls and a simple black long-sleeved dress that covers just enough of her to leave the perfect amount to the imagination, he has not been able to take his eyes off of her since she walked in, swaggered right through the door like she owned the place, pushed right past the crowd standing around the bar and around the back of it, poured her own drink, planted a kiss on the bartender’s cheek, and made her way to the small table in the corner. How he has managed to frequent this bar for the past few months without seeing her comes as quite the surprise, given how comfortable she is currently making herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is a goddess on land. Growing up, his brother told him the stories, the myths about women too beautiful to be human that lure men to their deaths out on the open ocean— women that, sometimes, are given the power to walk on land and seduce men the same way. For years, Liam taunted him with the stories, told him that the women he brought back to their apartment have cursed him, would be the death of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah almost was. Milah, the woman that he never should have fallen in love with, the woman whose love almost lured him to his death — and he has the scars to prove it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this woman, this mystery woman that seems to be somewhere between a siren and an angel, is much different than Milah. Where she was all danger and rebellion and breaking all the rules, this woman in the bar surrounds herself with an aura of perfect harmony, of peace and having her shit together, which is a pleasant turn from his usual woman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, David,” he calls to the bartender, who is also the manager and co-owner with his brother, James, and he comes down the bar towards Killian. “Who is—who is that woman that just came in here? The blonde, in the corner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He may have only known David for a few weeks, but he does know one thing for sure: he has met David’s wife, Mary Margaret, and the mystery woman is not her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who, Emma?” he asks, gesturing in her direction. “That’s my sister. Haven’t you met her? I know she’s been in here a few times since you started coming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, I know that I’d remember her.” He turns back towards her, taking another sip of his rum. “Can I buy her a drink?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David laughs, but Killian watches as he pulls one of the bottles of whiskey off one of the higher shelves, pouring it over a single cube of ice. “Well, Emma gets all her drinks on the house because she helps with the numbers, but I can, uh, send her one on your behalf, if you’d like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian feels the corner of his mouth pull up, smiling up at the bartender before he finishes the rest of his glass. “Aye, that would be perfect. And while you’re at it, can I have another, as well?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Emma?” When David calls her name from beside her, a new glass of whiskey in his hand, she realizes how wound up in her mind she was, her eyes set on the void beyond the center of her glass, which she is just now realizing contains only the ice cube. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she says, mostly to herself, but then turns up to David. “What’s up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The, uh, gentleman at the bar bought this for you. Hypothetically.” He smiles down at her, but the expression she tosses back to her brother after scanning as much of him as she can see is more of a glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His name’s Killian. He’s been coming in here for a few months now. I think he’s a detective, or something like that. He seems nice enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she looks up at the man at the bar, she is almost immediately taken aback. She’s lived in Storybrooke for years, and she knows for a fact that she has never seen him before, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn</span>
  </em>
  <span> if he isn’t someone she would remember. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing she notices is his leather jacket, perfectly tight in all the right places and fully unzipped to show his black button-down shirt, unbuttoned just enough to see the crop of dark black hair that covers his chest, dark hair that mirrors that which covers his head, just long enough to classify as ‘flowing’, plus covering his face in a short, soft stubble. For a moment, she finds herself imagining what that stubble would feel like on her skin, a thought that she shakes out of her mind before her brother notices the change on her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles at her, a cocky smile that she knows she should hate, but for some reason draws her in more than anything else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She takes the glass from her brother, raising it towards her benefactor, who winks at her. She rolls her eyes at him, turning up the corner of her mouth in a small smile before quickly taking a sip out of the glass in hopes of hiding it from him, learning that David opted for the more expensive of the choices. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David begins to turn around to head back to the bar, but Emma stops him. “If he wants to, he can, uh, come over here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fails to contain the laugh that erupts out of his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? He’s cute and I’m stressed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds his hands up in defeat. “I definitely did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> need to know that. But sure, kid, I’ll let him know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn't know where the words came from, something she definitely didn't need to admit to her brother, of all people; but she watches as he returns to the bar, silently shaking his head at her, and as he leans across the bar to say something to the man, who turns to her, one eyebrow cocked halfway up his forehead and a knowing smile that makes Emma blush, as if he already knows what she wants from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes are glued to him, to the way he moves so eloquently as he thanks David and pushes himself off the bar stool, the way his tight dark jeans cling to the curves of his hips as he approaches her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when he sits down across from her, there is only one feature of his that she can focus on: the brightness of his piercing blue eyes, the color of the clearest blue sky, so perfect they can't actually be real. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello, love," he practically growls at her from across the table, and she is even more taken aback by him, because of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course </span>
  </em>
  <span>he's English, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course </span>
  </em>
  <span>he has an accent that just <em>fits</em> him, somehow. Why in the world wouldn't he? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is anything about him even real? Or has she dozed off somehow, fallen asleep at her desk in her office, and conjured him from the deepest depths of her imagination? </span>
  <span>But she knows that even her imagination would never have been able to make him up, and the condensation against her fingers, the leather sticking to the back of her thighs, the low humming of the jukebox that David insists they keep running behind the sounds of the bar, are all things she wouldn’t be able to notice if she were anywhere other than right here, in the corner of David and James’ bar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plus, if this were her imagination, she would be anywhere other than in the sights of her own brother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hi," she says coolly, trying to stay level headed even as every muscle in her body starts to long for... something, ever-present by the heat rising through her, settling like a weight in her stomach. "Thanks for the drink. Hypothetically." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The pleasure is all mine. Hypothetically." The words hang between them for a moment, neither daring to speak what is thick enough in the air between them to be apparent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You come here often?" she asks, then laughs at her own question before adding to it. "David says you do, but I'm fairly certain I've never seen you here before." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Trust me, love. If you and I had been here at the same time before, I think I'd remember. You don't look like the kind of woman I'd forget." There is another flash behind his eyes, and when he winks at her, Emma notices the way her stomach heats at the very thought of him, the way he makes her squirm in her seat, pushing her thighs together to find some sort of relief to the tension welling up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To cover up the movement, she leans towards him, her forearms resting on the table and her hands a mere inch from where his is still wrapped around his glass. "I would imagine not. A face like yours would haunt me for weeks, at least." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I would never forgive myself if it were any other way. How our paths have not managed to cross as of yet, especially given the regularity of each of us at this establishment, is a bloody shame." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a pointedly slow sip of her whiskey, she keeps her eyes on him, drinking in as much of him as she can while the liquor burns her throat just enough to be what she needs. She would not be surprised if she were to learn he was a model, with his perfectly molded jawline, grinding against itself as he crushed a piece of ice between his back teeth; cheekbones taken from the most delicately intricate marble statue; and a smile that continues to melt Emma from the inside out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But those </span>
  <em>
    <span>eyes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Surely nothing is that perfectly blue on its own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No time like the present," she says, accidentally knocking her knee against his under the table, the reminder she needed that he was really there, sitting in front of her in the back corner of her brothers’ bar, staring at her with a gaze so intense she fears it may make her burst. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That didn't necessarily need to be a bad thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though it definitely couldn't be a good thing </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>, where she could practically feel David's wandering eye on her and her new companion, especially after the confession she made when he delivered the drink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I couldn't agree more, love." There was something in that word, something in the eloquent way it rolled off his tongue, that made her head spin more than the whiskey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wondered what else he could do with his tongue that would make her head spin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She needed to get out of here. And fast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My name is Emma Swan,” she says, sort of stupidly, and takes a sip of her whisky as she reaches out to set her hand on his wrist, as if that could fix it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way he smiles almost does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Killian," he responds, and even though David already told her that, she can't imagine a more perfect, fitting name for him. "Jones."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Killian." Repeating it, she tests the way it feels on her tongue. It's just as perfect as she imagined, and she hopes she'll have more opportunities to use it as the evening progresses. "Will you come outside with me?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Intrigued, his eyebrow flicks up his forehead again, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. "Of course." His voice is soft, even—much different than the deafening pound of Emma’s heart threatening to remove itself from her chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stands up before she can stop herself, but finishes the rest of her glass of whiskey first, a movement Killian mimics with his own glass before following her through the bar. She stops in front of her brother as he comes around the bar to see to a customer, stopping him with her hand on his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Add his drinks to my tab," she says, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek and turning away from him before he can try to stop her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Emma!" he calls out, but Killian is the one who turns towards him, quickly finding himself on the receiving end of a glare so sharp he can feel it in his chest. All he can do is shrug as he follows her out the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stops almost immediately, pressing her back against the cool bricks of the building, the weight that she felt in her chest already beginning to release itself into the autumn air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry," she breathes, running her slender fingers through her perfect golden curls. "There's just something so blatantly wrong about flirting knowing you're being watched the whole time by your brother."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs at her for the first time, a sound so sincere that she would be okay if it were the only thing she heard for the rest of her life. "I would imagine." His hand flies to his hair, tugging at a piece behind his ear. "That's what that was then? Flirting?" he asks, the corner of his lips flicking up in the beginning of a smile. "I was wondering." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wouldn't you agree?” she asks, thankful for the slight chill of the night that stops the heat from rising to her cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aye, I would. I would go as far as to say that it was going well, actually." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning her eyes up to him, she says nothing at first. There is far less space between them than there was in the booth, and she can feel the heat radiating off of him, can make out the specks of silver in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really is the most breathtaking person she has ever seen. She smiles at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span> well. From David's perspective, you left with me already." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, but when he asks, “Are you sure you want me to?" he is nothing but serious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scans his face for a moment before reaching out and placing her hand on his arm. "Yeah, I am." She flashes him another smile, and this time he returns it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fantastic." Another flash of light passes behind his eyes, and he turns his wrist so he can take her hand in his. "My car is in the lot around the corner, if you want to take that." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I appreciate that, but we're actually not going to need it. My apartment is at the end of the block." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, but then David will know I never went home." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it's Emma’s turn to laugh as she leads him down the block. "Are you that intimidated by my brother?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Honestly, yes, sometimes I am." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, don't worry, officer. I won't let him get you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian pulls back the bottom of his jacket, revealing the detective's badge still clasped to the waist of his jeans. "How did you know that?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"David mentioned it when he dropped off that top-shelf whiskey you bought me. He also mentioned that he likes you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, damn. I hope I’m not ruining that by going home with his sister." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, a smile stretched across her face. "It's not too late. You can still go back and spend the rest of the night alone with him at the bar." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches up, cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand. "I think you're worth the risk." Just as softly as his words, he presses his lips against hers. It lingers for a moment, until Emma remembers the heat his body and his double entendres started inside of her, remembers the ways she was so incredibly physically attracted to him in the bar—the reason she needed to leave in the first place. Leaning in to him, she wraps her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through his hair, and she pulls him in to her. He responds immediately, his arms snaking around her hips, and when he feels the warm flick of her tongue on his bottom lip, he grants her what she wants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Killian," she whispers against his lips, and he hums in response. “Come home with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lead the way,” he mumbles back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it is in this moment, when his eyes move away from the goddess that was just pressed up against him, that he sees him, standing on the fire escape of a building across the street from them, partially lit by a streetlamp with his face lighting up further when he takes a drag from the cigarette he holds between his teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though it’s a face he’s only seen his face through the work of sketch artists since they started investigating him, it’s still a face he would recognize anywhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stalker. The stalker, about whom they have received complaints from six different women in the past six months, two of which have wound up dead since then. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just my bloody luck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. The case has been quiet for weeks, and the first news he has comes </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides, what are the odds that he is here for Emma? There are at least twenty apartments in the building she is leading him towards, not to mention the others on the street, he could be waiting for a woman that lives in any one of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did that somehow make it all better? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Though he can’t deny that she fits the profile perfectly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Damn it all to hell. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns his eyes back to Emma, her hand wrapped around his, hoping that the man had not realized that he had noticed him there, or had not recognized him for who he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he even knows who Killian is. He hopes he does not, but at every turn, he has always found himself one step behind the man, so he could never be too careful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches her pull her keycard out of her clutch purse, then as she slides it through the scanner on the wall next to the door. When he reaches past her to open the door, she flashes him a perfect smile, one he tries his very best to return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she leads him up the steps to her apartment, he wishes that he would have noticed him at any other moment, any time besides the moment she asked him to come to her apartment with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stalker, his biggest case, biggest loss of sleep, and now, biggest cock-block. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, I need to tell you something,” he says, trying his best to keep his voice flat, but the curiosity and worry that cover her face when she turns around to face him are sure signs that she has failed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Running his tongue against his bottom lip, he turns away from her eyes and takes a deep breath, slowly releasing it before he turns his gaze back to hers. “I have reason to believe that you may have a stalker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You… what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He allows his eyes to find hers again. “There’s a stalker that we’ve been investigating for about six months. We’ve heard from six different women, all of whom have the same physical profile as you, which leads me to believe that he really is here for you. But he’s there, standing on a fire escape across the street and watching us. He’s killed two of those girls, Emma. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Damn</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I’m not even sure how much of this I should be telling you, but if he’s coming after you, you need to know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leans back against the door, her eyes squeezed shut, and he gives her time to process everything, because he knows that it’s a lot, but when she finally speaks, something in her voice makes him feel like she is about to fall apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re telling me that I have a stalker… who has </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed</span>
  </em>
  <span> two of his victims. And I also asked a detective to come home with me earlier. Is there a connection between these, Killian? Is that the reason you came home with me? Because of this guy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Believe me, Swan, if I would have realized this before we left the bar, I would have told you then. I want nothing more than to follow you up to that apartment and worship you in the way you deserve to be worshipped, but I also feel obligated to warn you, hoping that this just gives me the opportunity to perhaps stay around a little longer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns her eyes up towards him, bright with the reflections from the fluorescent lights in the stairwell. “Why would it mean that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because now I can spend as much time by your side as I can. He may have seen me come home with you, but what he doesn’t know is that we’re on to him. This also gives me a reason to continue to spend my nights with you. That is, if you’d like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without even thinking about it, she acts on her first response to this and takes a step away from him. She may have just met him, but that does not mean that she is planning on baring her heart to him, because that is not something that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not since she was nineteen and on her own in Boston and gave her heart to someone who destroyed it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says nothing, does not even move to follow her, but instead lets his arms fall to his sides, his shoulders hunched in defeat. She stares at him, searching the sapphires of his eyes for any sign that he is lying to her, trying to use her in the same way she was used ten years ago. The only thing he does to beckon her back to him is keep his eyes set on her face, eyes in which Emma sees nothing but honesty and truth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But even that scares her. Neal used to look at her the same way, and look where that got her? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something about the man in front of her, the sincerity in his gaze and the honor in his words, is completely different than any other man she’s allowed to be this close to her— and there have not been many.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not since Neal. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What the hell, Emma?</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she asks herself, slowly filling her lungs with air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As much as she tries to ignore it, though, she knows why: this stalker, following her, bound to threaten her soon, is exactly why she moved back to Storybrooke after everything that happened in Boston. Because if anyone could protect her, it would be her ex-military brothers and their band of buddies. After everything that Neal did to her— did </span>
  <em>
    <span>around </span>
  </em>
  <span>her— she promised herself never to let her guard down that much again, even in a place like Storybrooke, where she knows everyone and everyone knows her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now? Now the threat is </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>standing outside her bedroom window. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not that she thinks it’s Neal, or even related to Neal, but she knows the feeling of running away from something that you think might be on your trail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it terrifies her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, she pulls her eyes up to Killian, who still has not moved, besides using his hand to run over the coarse stubble of his cheeks. Unlike everyone else in her life, her mind is not telling him to run away from him, at least not any further than the two steps back she took when he asked about staying in her life. He is gentle and sincere and </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span>, making none of the alarms in her mind go off for what seems like the first time ever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid, Killian,” she says, her voice stuck at a whisper, threatening to break if she speaks any louder, and when she takes a step towards him, he meets her in the middle, wrapping his arms around her back and pulling her into his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With good reason, love. But that’s why I’m going to protect you.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, this is too good,” he says out loud, the lit end of his cigarette bobbing with the movement of his lips. And then he </span>
  </em>
  <span>smiles</span>
  <em>
    <span>, for what feels like the first time in years, watching as the dark-haired detective wraps his arm around her shoulder. “Everything is starting to come together nicely.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He takes a long drag of the cigarette, watching it light up in his reflection in the window, and flicks the ashes onto the floor beside him. It’s something the boss would yell at him about in his own quarters, he knows, but the empty apartment is far from the lavish house perched at the top of the hill. But he’ll only be here for as long as it takes to complete the Master Plan, which — he huffs out a laugh, an eerie, emotionless sound — is taking shape much faster than he anticipated. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>——— </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What the hell kind of mess did you get yourself into this time? </span>
  </em>
  <span>she asks herself, and she knows that she should be more worried about the damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>stalker</span>
  </em>
  <span> that she apparently has, but that’s not even what she finds herself focusing on. Instead, somewhere far beyond the blank lines of the legal pad on her desk, Emma sees Killian — </span>
  <em>
    <span>Detective Jones</span>
  </em>
  <span> — his leather jacket and his unnervingly blue eyes and his damn desire to be with her, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>protect </span>
  </em>
  <span>her. Part of her wishes, almost, that she hadn’t met him at the bar that night, that she hadn’t connected with him so emphatically, or at least that she hadn’t invited him back to her apartment. That she hadn’t learned about the stalker. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost </span>
  </em>
  <span>wishes she could go back to two days ago — less than, really — her life was much simpler, and the biggest problem she had was Mayor Mills requesting files from her office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma?” Ariel calls, walking up to the open door of their shared office and peering around the corner, finding Emma staring intently at an empty page of a legal pad with her head propped up on her fist. When Emma still doesn’t answer — just as she didn’t the first two times she tried to call her name from down the hall — Ariel turns the corner completely, propping herself against the doorframe, and tries again, cupping her hands around her mouth in a makeshift megaphone. “Earth to Emma Swan, is anybody home?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Emma looks up from the blank page, meeting the eyes of her office mate. “What? Do you need something?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ariel half-laughs, though still worried about her friend, and walks into the office. “Emma, I’ve called your name, like, six times,” she says, a slight exaggeration, though those are a normal part of her personality. But, leaning on the edge of Emma’s desk, the smile that usually graces her face disappears. “Are you alright? You just seem really out of it today.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma sighs, dropping her pen on the legal pad so she can hold her head in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head, but refusing to look up at her friend. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything you want to talk about?” Ariel asks, her voice soft. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Emma’s inner voice screams, </span>
  <em>
    <span>There’s so much</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But instead, she shakes her head again, then crosses her arms on the desk and rests her forehead against them. “No, I’m just— I just need to find something to distract myself from it, to be honest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Ariel says, and Emma can hear the smile in her voice before she picks her head up off the desk. “I have some good news for you, then, because Zelena just gave us a whole list of things to do for this new case.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“For the record, Jones, I don’t think this is a good idea.” Graham, the sheriff, is sitting on the edge of his desk, the office door closing the two of them from the rest of the small precinct building. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Noted,” he comments, leaning back in his chair and resting his boots on the edge of Graham’s desk. The sheriff glares down at them, but makes no move to remove them himself, nor does he ask Killian to do it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A beat passes between them. Graham cards his fingers through his hair. Killian throws a rubber band ball in the air and catches it in his prosthetic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me again what happened,” he asks, and Killian rolls his eyes, but tells the story again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I met her at the bar last night. I bought her a drink, we started talking, you know how that all works.” Graham hums in agreement. “I went to walk her home, and I noticed him standing across the street from her apartment. She invited me up, and I figured it would be the perfect opportunity to tell her what I thought she needed to know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Graham hops off the edge of his desk and begins pacing in the space between it and the chairs, but with Killian’s feet still propped up on the desk, he can only take three steps in each direction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you think the best thing to do about this is continue to spend time with her so you can catch this bastard before he has a chance to do anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Killian responds simply, his eyebrows accentuating the word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He throws the ball up in the air and catches it again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t we just… I don’t know, post a car outside her place? Send someone to watch him? Wouldn’t that make more sense?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Graham, this man has only killed his victims </span>
  <em>
    <span>after </span>
  </em>
  <span>they noticed him and came to us, remember? If he sees someone patrolling her apartment, or even waiting around it, he might get spooked and act faster. Emma works at the law firm across the street from here, so I can pick her up after work and spend nights with her without anything seeming off, especially since he saw me go home with her last night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait.” When Graham turns on his heel to face Killian, his eyebrows make a sharp ‘v’ across his forehead. “Emma… Swan? David Nolan’s foster sister?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Foster</span>
  </em>
  <span> sister,” he says, mostly to himself as he runs his thumb against his bottom lip, since it answers quite a few questions that had come to him since he left her apartment earlier that morning. “That explains the different last names.” Now it is his turn to snap his eyes to Graham. “I always forget that you know David.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, he and I were deployed together, but you know that. However, you may not know that I dated Swan briefly a few years back."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian tosses the ball up in the air, but it falls to the floor and bounces a few times before Graham stops it beneath his boot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Graham had to describe the emotion that crosses Killian's face, he would name no less than six: surprise, embarrassment, confusion, discomfort, worry, shock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You… what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, staring at the floor again. “Yeah, when I— not long after David and I got back from our tour and I moved to Storybrooke, she and I went on a few dates. Nothing big came of it, obviously, but…” He knocks his fists together in front of him, then leans down to pick up the rubber band ball, turning to Killian to hand it to him. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A beat passes between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian throws the rubber band ball in the air, catches it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you can keep them separate? Business and pleasure?” Graham turns to him, but his eyes are fixed on the rubber band ball in his hand, and he watches as he grinds his jaw together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t about my pleasure, this is about Miss Swan’s safety.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t answer my question, Jones.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes snap to Graham’s, somehow more grey than blue, and when he replies, Graham is almost entirely sure he has never heard more venom in his voice. “Whether you believe me or not, sheriff, I am completely capable of doing my job.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not for the first time, Graham is amazed by his insubordination. But the thing that Graham has learned about Killian Jones over the years is though he might have an attitude, a smart mouth, and a need to speak his mind when he shouldn't, you can't deny his track record. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>damned </span>
  </em>
  <span>good detective, whether Graham wants to accept it or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, worse than that, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moreso, Killian is the lead detective on the stalker case and no one knows more about the man they're looking for. There's no reason to turn down his request, Graham realizes, except that he wants to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian tosses the ball in the air, catches it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Graham says finally. “But this is still an open investigation, so you can't tell her more than she needs to know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Killian pulls his boots off the desk and lets them fall to the floor, Graham can feel his desk rattling from the impact. Running his fingers through his hair, he tugs on the end of it, making some of the strands stick straight up, and that muscle in his jaw ticks again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If this man is after her, then she deserves to know as much as she can to keep herself safe from him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jones,” he tries, but the detective sitting next to him does not respond, just continues talking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She deserves to know what he looks like, and what he did—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“—to those girls, because if she doesn't, then he might just—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian!” he yells, and his bright blue eyes snap up towards him as his words stop abruptly. “Don't let yourself go down that path. We'll do all we can to protect her, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian lets out a shaky sigh and covers his face with his hands, but Graham can still tell when he nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye,” he whispers, just loud enough for Graham to hear him before turning his eyes back towards Graham. “That's— of course, yeah.” His shoulders rise and fall with his deep, slow breath. “Any other ideas? Things I can do to try to keep her safe?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment’s thinking, Graham nods, pushing away from his desk, heading towards the door to his office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, there are a couple more things. I don't want you to do this alone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian sighs, and Graham can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>the argument coming before he even opens his mouth, even with his back to the detective. “I really don’t think—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, Jones, I don’t really care what you think,” he bites back, opening the door and sticking his head out into the bullpen. “Mills!” he calls, startling his youngest detective from the paperwork that he’s intently focused on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, sir?” he replies, practically jumping out of his seat, and Graham just motions for him to relax. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you come in here for a minute, please?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, he really does jump out of his desk chair, straightening the front of his dress shirt as he crosses the bullpen. “What’s going on, sir?” he asks, and Graham motions for him to go into his office. When he sees Killian in one of the chairs, he practically stops in his tracks, and when he raises his startling blue eyes from the ground to glare at Henry, he does stop, pressing back against the wall behind him as Graham closes the door to the office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, mate?” he growls, his glare still pinning Henry against the wall. “The rookie? You’re giving me the rookie?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian,” Graham sighs, rolling his eyes, but he’s useless against the force of Killian’s anger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I tell you that I have a lead on the stalker, on a </span>
  <em>
    <span>serial killer</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and you sic the rookie on me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you don’t want me, I’ll just—” Henry starts, turning back towards the office door as he tries to hide the embarrassment on his face. Killian has voiced his disinterest in working with him before, most of it stemming from </span>
  <em>
    <span>his royal bitch of a mother, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks were the exact words he growled from the very same seat he’s in now, though there were quite a lot more people in the office. Sure, yes, his mother </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>the mayor, and she may have pulled a few strings to get him the job when he came back to Storybrooke, but that’s not to say his academy training in Boston and his time with the Seattle Police couldn’t have just as easily done the same. He’s just as qualified to be here as anyone else, maybe even more, but all Killian can see is who he is, blinded by some kind of vendetta against his mother from way back when he first came to Storybrooke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop,” Graham says, reaching out his hand to stop Henry from trying to leave the office. “And you can stop, too, Jones.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian snaps his mouth closed. Henry leans back against the wall behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you have something against young Mills here, but he is a highly qualified detective, and you’re going to fill him in on the case over lunch and discuss how you can include him in this whole charade.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The muscles of Killian’s jaw jump under the stress of his grinding teeth. Henry bites back a smile. But when neither of them answer, Graham crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you understand, Jones?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mills?” he asks, and both of them snap their attention towards him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still has to bite back a smile, but he manages to nod. “Yes, sir.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, I do have a few orders of business to get through first, if you don't mind?” he asks, leaning closer to her as he drapes his arm across the back of her chair at the bar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Orders of business</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she repeats, mimicking his accent with her eyebrows high, but the smile that covers her face shows she is more humored than upset. “Such technical terms to be using on our second date.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it's Killian's turn to smile, one eyebrow cocked high on his forehead. “Second date? Did I miss the first? Surely I would remember a thing like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma laughs softly, setting her hand on his arm. “Fine, then it's our </span>
  <em>
    <span>first </span>
  </em>
  <span>date,” she corrects, but that just makes his smile grow wider, turning down towards his outfit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, damn, if I would have known that, I would have dressed for the occasion, brought a bottle of champagne.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian, get to the point,” she says, rolling her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, darling.” He tenses, leaning away from her. “I just — Graham doesn’t want me working on this alone, so over the next few days, we have to figure out how to work Detective Mills into this whole plan of ours,” he says, much more serious than just moments before. "If you have any brilliant ideas, I'm all ears, because neither of us could come up with anything when we talked earlier. But</span>
  <span>, as long as it's okay with you, you'll be under my protection for a while. I'll pick you up from work, drop you off in the morning, and we'll spend some time at my apartment and some at yours to make sure that the man we're searching for is actually after you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, hearing these words from him makes this whole scenario </span>
  <em>
    <span>scarier</span>
  </em>
  <span>, though she wouldn’t have thought it possible after the constant spine-chilling fear that has been washing over her since Killian revealed the big news to her last night: she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>possibly</span>
  </em>
  <span> being stalked. “Do I— do I need to do anything? Should I tell David, or my boss, or…?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he says quickly. “Keep doing everything just as you normally do. If there's a normal time that you go to the grocery store, to the gym, to David's, then keep doing it, we'll talk more about your schedule tomorrow when we meet with Mills. We want him to think that we have no idea he's watching you, give him no reason to think we're on to him, because that's when he gets dangerous.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” she says, but fails to hide the shakiness of her breath. “That's…” She really doesn’t even know what she was going to say, her words — hell, her </span>
  <em>
    <span>thoughts </span>
  </em>
  <span>half formed for practically the entire last 24 hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when she says nothing else for a few seconds, Killian reaches up and rests his hand against her cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he says softly, turning her face until she is looking at him, and she doesn’t know exactly what he sees when he looks into her eyes, but something in his makes her sure, somehow, that  he wants to do everything he can to keep her safe. “Emma, I promise you that you will be okay. I am going to protect you, Detective Mills and Sheriff Humbert will protect you, and if we need to, then we will get James and David involved and I am damned sure that they will protect you, too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She attempts to smile, but it is barely fully formed before it disappears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks once, then again, his soft eyes searching for meaning in her expression. “What do you mean, love?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you doing all this for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To be honest, I've been chasing this bastard for six months, have watched as he's killed women that have come to me for help, but I'm going to do everything I can to make sure that you're not next.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her only reaction is to pull her bottom lip up between her teeth, chewing gently on it, but her face is still covered with worry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s been worried before. Hell, she grew up in the foster system, her childhood was drowning in fear. Both of her older brothers, the only family she ever had, went off to war. She was left, alone, terrified, in a Boston jail by the only person she ever gave her heart to. Sure, she’s known fear. But this… is something else entirely, apparently. This is a fear that somehow even cuts deeper than the fear that overtook her in those few weeks she spent in jail before her lawyer was able to find proof that she was telling the truth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must notice her lost in thought (though there’s really no way for him to miss it, her unfocused eyes, the way her pointer finger moves silently around the rim of her water glass), and he leans closer to her, the tips of his fingers wrapping softly against her shoulder as his lips almost brush the shell of her ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And believe it or not,” he whispers. “I have come to grow quite fond of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, the corners of her lips turn up in the beginnings of a smile, and seeing the change in her, he lets his own grow bigger, leaning slightly away from her to better see her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now you've intrigued me, Jones,” she mumbles, just loud enough for him to hear over the noise of the bar, thankful for the change of subject even though, moments ago, she would have begged him to tell her more about this case. “Do go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why wouldn't I be fond of you? You're funny, strong, adorable.” He leans back towards her, and this time, he lets his lips touch the shell of her ear. “And so god damned attractive that I can't stand it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his breath hot on her cheek, she feels a wave of attraction roll through her, settling beneath her stomach as she turns to him, his pale blue eyes wide and fixed on her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to talk about this,” she whispers, and she can swear that they're the hardest words she's ever had to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls away a few inches, his eyebrows knitting across his forehead. “What do you mean, love?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you're going to be protecting me, spending time with me, pseudo-dating me, then we should talk about… about us. About what we are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans back farther, his back finding the wooden back of the chair, but he tightens his arm around Emma's shoulders. “Of course,” he says, trying to hide the pang of guilt that snaps in his chest. He should never have assumed that what Emma wanted aligned with what he wanted— he's been taught to be better than that. Just because he was going to protect her by no means obligated her to return his affection for her. And her actions tonight, looking back over them at this moment, said the same thing. “Tell me your thoughts, love. I don't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. </span>
  <span>Just because I saw him while I was taking you back to your apartment by no means means that I didn't want to be there myself, but I also understand that not everyone wants to have to see their one night stand every day for the foreseeable future.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no,” she says softly, and he definitely doesn't miss the way she leans into his side, smiling up at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good thing you're not a one-night stand, then,” she says, almost a whisper, and a smile grows across her face. He returns it, and they sit there like that for a few moments, stupidly smiling at the other, until his begins to falter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe that should be something on your laundry list of business that needs to be discussed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We slept together, Emma. That's not something that should be overlooked when you're assessing our situation.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, her head turns to face him, almost snapping into place, and her eyes are wide. “Please tell me that you didn't tell Graham we slept together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian can't help but laugh. “Of course I didn't, especially after he told me that the two of you dated a while back.” </span>
  <span>Though he wouldn't have thought it possible before that moment, her eyes widen further, her cheeks beginning to darken with embarrassment. Killian chooses to ignore it, as much as he wants to press the subject farther. </span>
  <span>“All he knows is that I went to walk you home when I saw our suspect outside your apartment, so I followed you up and informed you that you might be in danger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hand finds his on the bar before them. She runs her thumb across the back of his before looking up at him, her green eyes shining bright with excitement and affection and something that Killian can’t quite name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Don't take this the wrong way, Killian. Please. I— I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> you. And I don't know about you, but that's sort of a big deal for me. I want to take a shot at whatever this is, a shot at us, but I know that we didn't meet under the best circumstances, so if what you want is different, then I'll just deal with having to be near you—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma,” he says softly, repressing the urge to lean forward and press a soft kiss against her cheek. “Of course I want to be with you. I would be an idiot not to, and anyone that looks at you and doesn't realize that is a git."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank God,” she finally breathes, letting out an actual sigh of relief, smiling up at him for a moment before the bartender appears in front of them with their plates. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A wave of nervousness rolls through him, chilling him to the bone. Six months, six girls, and though he’s never felt closer to the bastard than he feels now, there’s a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he thinks of catching him, one that he’s almost too afraid to think too much about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he knows it’s connected to </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wants to catch him — of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span> he does, that’s his damn job — but now, with her safety on the line, he’s more afraid than ever. He has never allowed his next victim to have a face in his mind, has never had it connected to a name — has never been connected to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> (he grimaces as the thought passes through his mind, focusing on the change of his face in his reflection in the window for a moment instead of worrying about what may lie behind it for just a moment.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the first rule of detective work, really: don’t get involved. They tell you that on the first day. Hell, they tell you that before you even have a first day. If he would have known… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought disappears on his own, really, even as he hears the creaking of his bed under her as she shifts in the next room. He’s never realized just how loudly it does that, how much louder it must be under his own body weight, but, living alone, it’s never bothered him. What would he have done if he would have known? Would he have not bought her that drink? Not gone over and sat with her in her corner booth? Not followed her out of the bar? Because, sure, he knew when he went home with her, but he had no idea, no reason to suspect, before that. By the time he followed her up to her apartment, he knew that she might be connected somehow, and that didn’t stop him, but it wasn’t just because he wanted to sleep with her. Hell, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>told </span>
  </em>
  <span>her that she may be in danger, and still slept with her — was that the </span>
  <em>
    <span>right </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing to do? The move of a gentleman? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, he hears Liam’s voice in his head: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good form, little brother. Are you showing good form? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>God, how he wishes Liam were here to answer the question instead of just living as a ghost inside his head. He would like to believe that he’s living out his brother’s wishes, being the best man he can be, a man of honor — but it would be a hell of a lot easier with Liam still here to guide him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking the ghost of his brother out of his head, he sets his eyes on the street below him once more, arms crossed over his chest. He barely knows what he’s looking for, in the shadows of the streetlights. How he even recognized him that first night is still a mystery to him, because he can make out nothing from his own apartment window. The flash of a lit cigarette across the street from him could mean anything; everywhere he has been has had people smoking on their fire escapes: London, Dublin, New York. Why should Storybrooke, Maine be any different? (It’s not, he knows for sure, remembering the brief conversation he had with his elderly upstairs neighbor as he sat out on his own one night, nursing a glass of rum and obsessing over copies of case files he’s not even supposed to have, pages that he sees before his eyes when he closes them.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every movement, every flash of light, is a threat. He was trained to see them that way, and though the loss of his brother and the injuries he sustained from Milah kept him from action, his training never disappeared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They would be more potent threats if he could keep his attention on them, though. He would spend more time memorizing the faces of the men walking in front of his building if the image of Emma’s curves in that dress the night they met wasn’t at the forefront of his mind, the memory of the way it fell to the floor with a whisper before he lifted her onto the bed. He would better notice the worn-down old station wagon parked at the end of the next block, the very same one that he parked next to down the street from the bar, if he could get the image of just how small and helpless she looked all alone in the sea of blue blankets and pillows out of his mind, if he wasn’t so focused on the memory of her soft golden waves of hair laying across his pillows when she laid down in his bed, if he couldn’t feel the way that her unkempt hair ticked his nose as she slept on his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to remember every moment he’s spent with her, from the soft feel of her tongue swiping against his to how she held herself above him, one hand tangled in his hair, the way her arms bucked and her eyes squeezed shut as she rode out her orgasm on top of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(And if he wasn’t wrestling against his own slowly hardening erection within his sweatpants, trying to rub the pictures of her from his eyes, maybe he would have seen him, standing on the street below his apartment window, looking up at him in the very moments that Killian is no longer searching the street for clues, his colorless eyes lit up by the cigarette in his mouth.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sucks in a breath, trying to shake the memory of her from his mind as he scrubs his hand over his face, realizing that he really should shave before work in the morning. He tries to see anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>but </span>
  </em>
  <span>her, tries to make out a single bloody detail of what’s going on outside his own window, but all he can see in the glass is the startling reflection of her bright green eyes where he knows his should be.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God damn it, Killian,” he says to himself, resting his forehead against the cool glass for just a moment before closing the curtains and heading to the bathroom to take a shower. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And shave his damn face, he guesses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“God, you look exhausted,” Ruby says to him in place of a greeting, sliding a cup of coffee across the table towards him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next to him, Detective Mills lets out a small laugh, though he tries to cover it with the back of his hand when Killian glares at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to tell me that today,” he mutters, almost not wanting the words to be heard in the first place. But the diner is slow right now, somewhat normal for his early lunch time, so Ruby hears it anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks around the restaurant, though it’s just Leroy and Mr. Clarke sitting at the bar and Jacinda leaning against the refrigerator scrolling on something on her phone, so she slides into the empty seat across from the detectives. “It’s Emma, right?” she asks, her face full of excitement, and for a moment, he’s terrified. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How does she know? What has Emma told her? Does she know about the—</span>
  </em>
  <span> “She’s keeping you up all night with her crazy sex antics? Not letting you sleep because she’s so insatiable?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is somehow… worse?</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he realizes, needing to take a sip of his coffee to try and keep his emotions off his face, especially after young Mills chuckles beside him again. Because, </span>
  <em>
    <span>gods above</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he wishes that were the truth. It would be one thing if he were able to continue to sleep next to her, even just to be able to feel her beside him instead of only in his nightmares, but the truth is that he’s barely even touched her since that first night, only daring so much as to kiss her goodnight before taking his place on his couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has no idea how to even respond to her. The half-terrified laugh that gets stuck in his throat is certainly not the right answer, but it’s the only one he can conjure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But instead of requiring an answer from him, the bell over the door rings, and Ruby’s attention turns from him to that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To her. Because of course it’s Emma walking through the door, wearing the same exhaustion on her face that he has on his, though hers is covered with a fine layer of powder and a flick of mascara (he would know, he watched her apply it in the rearview mirror of his car that morning), making her look much nicer and put-together than he is even capable of hoping to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Swan,” he breathes, smiling across the diner at her, and he pushes down the urge to jump from his seat at her arrival — especially because of the young Mills sitting beside him, keeping from leaving the vinyl booth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Em,” Ruby calls, her arm around the back of the booth. “I was just talking to your boyfriend here—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not my—” she starts, crossing the small diner, but something between the fear on Killian’s face and the smirk of Ruby’s stops the words. So she shrugs, dropping into the booth next to Ruby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was just telling us about how you’ve been keeping him up all night with your sexual antics,” Ruby jokes, nudging her with her shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She does her best to paint a smile on her face, though when her eyes meet Killian’s he notices that her smile doesn’t make it that far. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, Granny saves them all, popping her head out from the kitchen. “Ruby,” she calls, looking first to her normal seat at the bar before scanning the restaurant.  “Come help me.” It’s not a question, and when Emma recognizes the look on her face, she silently steps out of the booth to let Ruby out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Startled by Granny, Jacinda sticks her cell phone into the pocket of her apron and crosses the restaurant, pulling out an order pad as she reaches the table. “Can I take your order?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian shakes his head, not looking up from his cup of coffee. “This is good, thanks,” he mumbles. Emma orders a grilled cheese and a water. But when all that comes from Henry’s spot is silence, all three sets of eyes turn slowly towards him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still says nothing, his mouth practically hanging open as he looks up at their waitress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mills,” Killian says, gently elbowing the man next to him, but a plan begins to formulate in his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“How opposed would you be to being set up for a date?” Killian asks when they’re back in the cruiser, though he ignores meeting Henry’s eyes as he pulls out of the parking lot for the law office Emma works for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Mills,” he says, managing a smile. “I saw the way you looked at Miss Vidrio during lunch. She’s friends with Emma. You’re obviously interested in the girl. Plus, she lives in the apartment above the Nolan brothers’ bar, which aids in our need for rationalization.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry stays quiet until the end of the block. “Sheriff Humbert isn’t going to like this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Killian breathes out a laugh. “Believe it or not, Mills, I don’t need to run everything I do past Graham. This is my investigation.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Killian glances towards the passenger seat, he watches as Henry runs his hand across his face. “But — I don’t — um, wouldn’t — wouldn’t we be using her? You know, not telling her the whole story?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t make going on a date with her any less real, lad.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, if it’s alright with you, I’ll run the plan by Emma and she can see if Jacinda is even interested.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time when he glances over at Henry, he’s nodding. “Yeah, alright.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, he runs his hand over his face and turns to where he has his phone propped on the coffee table. 12:42. It’s been over two hours since Emma tried to stifle a yawn and Killian insisted she go to bed. In those two hours, even though every inch of his body argued, his brain focused on every movement of the building, every shift in the foundation and movement out on the street, his hand glued to the pistol resting on his chest. Every time he closed his eyes, his exhaustion taking over, he heard another noise, adrenaline snapping his eyes open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mind wanders back to Liam, as it tends to do in times of trouble. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What would Liam do?</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the constant mantra of the last twelve years, since the last time he was able to ask the question to his face. Sometimes — usually, if he’s being honest with himself, which is hard not to do at 12:42 in the morning — it proves useless, angry first with himself for not being able to think of anything, and then at his brother simply for being gone, and being angry at his brother for being gone then just makes him angrier with himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, however, that’s not the case. Tonight, something calls him to stand, to cross the living room, and to pull down one of the books from the shelf, the one with the worn blue fabric cover, the words fading from the front both because of its age and because of the sheer amount of times someone has run their hand over the embossing, whether it be Killian, Liam, or their mother, who liked to feel the words under her fingers every night before she opened the book to read them another chapter. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>20,000 Leagues Under the Sea</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He feels the words under his fingers, knows how the cover looks even in the low lights of the apartment. Back on the couch, though now with the lamp behind him on its lowest setting, he props the book up on his pistol, resting on his chest, and quickly loses himself in the words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does not know at what late hour his eyes finally give out on him, the words he knows practically by heart running together, but judging from how exhausted he feels pouring himself a cup of coffee, it couldn't have been before 2 a.m., and he feels every hour of sleep he's been deprived of with every movement of his muscles. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She feels like she’s moving in water. Something’s not right — in fact, something is </span>
  <em>
    <span>terribly </span>
  </em>
  <span>wrong. She shouldn’t — she shouldn’t be here. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>where here is, knows that she’s been here before, but she can’t place it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is… hazy. Foggy. It’s hot. It’s — dear god, it’s way too hot. Is that why she can’t see? </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Breathe, Emma, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thinks. She thinks it, but that doesn’t help much. It’s like there’s something pressing on her lungs, something holding her down. She has to get a hold of herself, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to, because if she doesn’t… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like she’s been here before. Not just in this situation, but in this… She tries to look around, to figure out where she is, because she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>she’s been here before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s when she hears it. It chills her to the bone, hearing it again after so long, but it’s a sound that she will never forget. A sound that’s haunted her nightmares for years. Because a laugh like that is something that she will </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>forget. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do?” she says, but her voice is wrong — it’s not coming from her, but from somewhere else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs again, a laugh that she feels in her spine. Pulls the cigarette out from between his teeth and passes it down the line, to Felix, who uncrosses his arms and takes it from him. His eyes never leave hers. None of them do, the whole semi-circle standing around her watching her from the chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Ems,” he says finally, barking out a laugh as he crosses his arms over his chest. “You have to know that it has nothing to do with you, right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does that even mean?” It’s her voice, she feels the words in her throat, but she’s still not the one saying them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In place of an answer, Neal checks his wrist, a smile spreading across his lips. No, no, not — not a smile. A smirk? He looks back at her, silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neal, what is going on?” Her voice gets caught in her throat, choking back a sob. “Please, baby, tell me what’s happening.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>baby</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he says, an obvious air of humor in his voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma finds none of this funny. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You fell for it,” he says, leaning closer to her. She can smell the cigarettes on his breath, which he knows she hates but never stopped doing anyway. “All of it, like the scared little girl you are,” he whispers. He smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neal,” she sobs, feeling it in her throat even though it’s still not where the sound is coming from. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a knock on the basement door — </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s where she is, in the basement of the big house — </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Rufio opens it, revealing two police officers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Gold?” one of them calls, and everyone turns towards Neal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His aura changes immediately, turning from the criminal Emma now knows him to be and back to the ambassador’s son. He straightens his shoulders, pushes his hair back into a more proper style. “Yes, thank you for coming out so quickly, officers.” His voice is less harsh, more serious. He smiles at them, but something is off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the officers returns his smile, obviously taken by his </span>
  <em>
    <span>charm</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Emma feels the words he’s going to say before he says them, like ice running through her veins: “Well, when we get a call for a citizen’s arrest from the ambassador’s house, it’s a bit of a priority.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Citizen’s arrest. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You fell for it.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, she fears she may lose the contents of her stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not quite. She… </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>she’s going to lose the contents of her stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll find the stolen watches in the truck of her car,” Neal tells them. “The yellow bug just out these doors. And I think —” he turns to her, as if he wasn’t already totally sure of the answer. “I think she’s also wearing one, too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>bastard</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The total, absolute, god damned bastard. He knows full well she’s wearing one because he put it there himself just the night before, sitting next to her in the park overlooking the harbor. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Just one more day,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he had told her, tightening the band around her wrist. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Tomorrow I’m getting my affairs in order and then we can go wherever you want.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bastard. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, please,” she says, her sobs getting caught in her-throat-but-not-</span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>-throat again. “You don’t understand.” She doesn’t even try to fight them, knows there’s no use trying to fight with the officers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Neal stole those watches — which wouldn’t surprise her anymore — they </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the back of her car. It was part of their getaway plan, selling the watches, though he told her they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>gifts</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Just like the one he gave her — a </span>
  <em>
    <span>gift</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll - I’ll tell you everything.” It’s the truth. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to tell them everything, all she knows about Neal, but whether they’ll believe her or not is a different story. She’s 17, a minor, an orphan. She has no one, no ambassador father to pay for a big shot lawyer. All she has is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>truth</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and it’s useless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, no, no,” she says, but it’s — </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Suddenly everything is wrong, This isn’t — Neal’s laughter, the cigarette smoke, the laughs from the police officers — </span>
  <em>
    <span>the laughs from the police officers? </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Please, please, no.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She screams, bolts upright, wipes the sweat from her forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Takes a deep breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A </span>
  <em>
    <span>nightmare</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ, Emma,” she whispers, her heart pounding in her throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lays back down, trying to steady her breath as she kicks the comforter off of her legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The comforter? </span>
  </em>
  <span>She doesn’t own a comforter. What the—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian. She remembers it all at once, the detective, the apartment, the almost-pseudo-dating. The stalker. Is </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>why she’s had a nightmare about Neal? The first she’s had in… years, really, she realizes, running her fingers through her hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t steady her breath, she can’t regulate her heartbeat. She can’t — she squeezes her eyes shut — she can’t breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Would it be insane to</span>
  </em>
  <span>— She shakes her head, sets it back down against the pillow, and tries to close her eyes again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s like her senses are on high alert. Every movement, every creak of the foundation, the wind outside the windows, </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything </span>
  </em>
  <span>restarts the pounding of her heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knows what she has to do. When she opens the door to Killian’s bedroom, she’s surprised to see light shining from the lamp on the table behind him, though the book that he was obviously reading when he fell asleep has fallen on the floor. As quietly as she can, she moves across the living room before reaching to pick the book up off the floor. The cover is worn, obviously both aged and well-loved, but she can make out the words on the cover: </span>
  <em>
    <span>20,000 Leagues Under the Sea</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It pulls a smile to her face, thinking about a young Killian reading this very novel, packing it in his bag for every move she knows he’s gone through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he moves on the couch, a groan slipping either from his lips or from the springs beneath him, and Emma remembers what brought her out here in the first place, sitting on the arm of the couch by his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian,” she whispers, running her fingers through his hair, startling him awake and calming him all at the same time. “Killian, I can’t sleep.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him a moment to wake up entirely, but when his eyes meet hers, a soft smile crosses his face. “Aye, love, I’ve been graced with the same affliction. How do you think I can help you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pauses for a moment, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth before whispering, “Come sleep with me? Please?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the answer he’s been waiting for, but he is able to hold himself back from jumping off the couch. Instead, he just smiles before slowly standing up. “Of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, it’s everything he’s wanted over the past few days, the chance to wrap his arms around her and tell her that everything is going to be okay, but when granted the opportunity, he finds himself unable to do anything, curling up on the edge of the bed as far from her as he can. Sure, she asked him to join her, but he in no way believes that to mean she wants the same. Just because they spent the first night together, just because she asked her to join him tonight, doesn’t make him assume that she is comfortable continuing their relationship the same way. She stays on her side for a few minutes, the room as silent as it is dark, until he hears her turn towards him, resting her cheek against his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are allowed to touch me, you know.” The words are soft, whispered against the fabric of his tee-shirt, and all that he needs. He turns to her, wrapping her in a hug, her face pressed into his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m scared, Killian,” she whispers after a few minutes of silence, almost hoping that he has fallen asleep and doesn’t hear the confession. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he moves his lips against her hair, inhaling her warm, inviting scent before responding, “I know, love. You have more than enough right to be. And I am, too, but I’m here for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though both of them move a few times to get comfortable, it is still the first night in what feels like weeks that Killian finds sleep quickly, finally a night when the visions that haunt his nightmares stay buried, peaceful until the light of the morning sun shines through the shades. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He has all intention of making her breakfast in the morning, but she has other plans, waking him up before his alarm with her lips against his neck and her hand slowly trailing down his stomach. He settles for a cup of coffee from Granny’s — again — but he’s certainly not complaining.)</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“H—hey,  Jacinda,” Henry stutters, leaning up against the counter where she’s focused on the crossword puzzle in front of her, only half-paying attention to her dinner in front of her and the few customers in the diner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hums, not turning towards him right away, before: “Do you know anything about basketball?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just about the last thing he expects, and he snaps his mouth shut, any of his follow-up questions disappearing. “What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Basketball. There’s — I’m stuck on this clue, and I can’t figure it out, or anything around it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what’s the clue?” he asks, pulling his cell phone from his back pocket. “I can—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” she practically yells, almost smacking the device out of his hand, and he gawks up at her until a smile grows across her features. “That’s — you can’t do that, Henry, that’s cheating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He returns her smile, a soft blush rising to his cheeks. “Well, I don’t know anything about basketball, but maybe Killian can help? If you’d like to join us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles, and he feels his heart rise up his throat. He’s had a crush on her for a while, almost for as long as he’s been back in Storybrooke, but he’s never done anything about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Apparently the push that he needs to ask a girl out is a serial stalker. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Great. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would be great.” She takes the crossword and her glass of water, with Henry grabbing her plate of pasta before she has the chance to ask for help. He slides into the seat first, thankful that Emma and Killian have chosen to sit beside each other the past few days, and gives Jacinda the outside in case her dinner break ends early, though doubtful with how few patrons are in the diner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you don’t mind if I join you,” she says, though Emma is already smiling at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, Miss Vidrio,” Killian says with a smile of his own. “You’re always welcome to join us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She was wondering if you know anything about basketball,” Henry says, which makes one of Killian’s eyebrows rise high on his forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not much, I’m afraid,” he says with a shrug. “But I’ll give it a shot.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jacinda nods, turning her attention back down to the newspaper in front of her. “Okay, uh,” she mumbles, running her finger down the list of clues until she finds the one she’s looking for, then nods again. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>The NBA’s ‘Round Mound of Rebound</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she reads. “Second letter is an </span>
  <em>
    <span>a</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” She turns her attention back to Killian, who shakes his head, so she turns to Henry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just shrugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Emma laughs, and every eye at the table turns to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charles Barkley.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Jacinda says, trying to hold back a smile, but she turns her attention back down to the crossword puzzle. “I never took you for a sports fan.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry and Killian both laugh, and Emma leans back against the seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not, really,” she says with a shrug, but that obviously doesn’t answer any of their questions — though she makes no move to explain, turning her attention instead towards Jacinda’s crossword puzzle. They’re still waiting on her to elaborate when Ruby steps in front of their table with a huff, seemingly frazzled even though the restaurant only has a handful of patrons. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you guys know what you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a laugh, Killian says, “I want to know why Emma knows so much about the NBA.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruby does not look impressed by Killian’s joke, but when she glances at Emma, the smirk on her face draws a smile on her own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking her head, Emma sighs. “David is a huge basketball fan. And James likes football. But David used to have a poster of Barkley in his room, and it had that nickname as the caption. We used to make jokes about it all the time. Now, if you’re done interrogating me about my childhood, I think Ruby wants to take our dinner order.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>If it weren’t for the stalker, Killian would go so far to say the next week and a half pass rather </span>
  <em>
    <span>blissfully</span>
  </em>
  <span>, with he and Emma able to develop a somewhat… normal relationship. On days when he has the time, he meets her somewhere for lunch — and even on days when he can’t take a formal lunch break, she sometimes shows up at the precinct with sandwiches for him and Henry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His life is almost normal. His favorite nights are nights like tonight, when he is able to cook for her. It’s something that he’d forgotten how much he enjoys, and between the beautiful mid-morning sun lighting up the farmers’ market set up in the park and the soft grey sundress that Emma found in the back of her closet that morning, it’s the best Saturday afternoon he’s had in a while, just spending time with her and gathering everything they need to make his mother’s chicken florentine recipe for dinner that night, joined by David and Mary Margaret and Henry and Jacinda; and even though, every once in a while, he catches a movement at the edge of his vision that makes his heart skip a beat and his stomach rise to this throat, he is able to convince himself that they’re nothing, that he has nothing to worry about — and that the stalker would never dare to attack them in such a public place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’s right. They make it through the afternoon without a problem — burgers for lunch, ice cream enjoyed under the shade of the park trees, plus stopping for a bottle of wine to share later, after the rest of their guests have left. The whole afternoon around Storybrooke, and no problems. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they get back to his apartment, however, it’s another story altogether. The door is open, Killian’s first sign that there’s a problem, and he hands the grocery bags to Emma so he can pull his pistol out from underneath his tee-shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Call Graham,” he says, also handing her his phone. “Tell him it’s you and that we need backup.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trying — and failing — to swallow the lump in her throat, she nods, setting the bags on the hallway floor to take his phone out of his hand. “Please be careful. We can — we can wait for them to get here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he says, his voice stern, but she doesn’t fail to notice the slight tremble in his hands as he holds this pistol out in front of him. “Just call.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The ice cream was a mistake,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she tells herself, trying to keep it down as she finds Graham’s name on his contact list. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sheriff Humbert.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Graham, it’s me — it’s Emma,” she stutters, managing to keep down her lunch as Killian slowly pushes the door to the apartment open. “We need backup at Killian’s apartment, he thinks — someone’s here, he thinks it’s the stalker.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. Right away.” Graham sighs. “But why are you calling me? Where’s Jones?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s in the apartment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, the noise he makes is less of a sigh and more of a groan. “Bloody hell,” he mumbles, which, in any other circumstance, would probably make Emma smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now, it just chills her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll be there right away.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Graham,” she replies, then hangs up the phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her heart pounds, slowly making its way up her throat with each moment that silence alone comes from the apartment. But it’s nothing compared to how she feels when instead, there’s the sound of two gunshots.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Graham shows up first, quickly clearing the two flights of stairs that lead to Killian’s walkup apartment. The first thing he notices is the open door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second is the emptiness in the space at the top of the steps. Emma’s not there, only a few bags of groceries and a bottle of wine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus, what’s he going to tell David</span>
  </em>
  <span> — but he pushes the thought down with a gulp, not even allowing his brain to go there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jones!” he calls out, turning his attention towards the half-open door. “I’m coming in!” And for a moment, the whole world stills, only silence greeting him on the other side. And then: </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Graham, thank god.” Emma’s voice comes from across the room, half-shrouded by the couch. He catches his breath closing his eyes for half a second. “Did you — are you —” He doesn’t even know what questions he’s trying to ask, but they’re not coming out either way, so he snaps his mouth shut before crossing the room to where Emma is kneeling on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s blood. There’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot </span>
  </em>
  <span>of blood, actually, something which has long since stopped bothering Graham. But seeing Killian Jones passed out on the floor, a blood-soaked light blue towel pressed against his shoulder, makes his stomach churn. Sure, Killian can be a pompous asshole, he sometimes doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, and he’s been known to defy an order or two, but Graham would still place him on the short list of his friends. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The stalker’s dead in the kitchen,” Emma says, her eyes never once leaving where she’s putting as much pressure on Killian’s gunshot wound as she can. “At least, I’m assuming it’s the stalker. And I’m assuming he’s dead, given that there’s been no movement or sound from over there since I came in.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham nods, changing his course to check on that, first. Sure enough, behind the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, there’s a dead body, a bullet in his chest and one just below his neck. Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course </span>
  </em>
  <span>Killian would manage two almost-perfect shots while he’s getting shot himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Graham confirms, pressing his fingers against the man’s neck even though there’s no way he could still be alive after those two shots. “He’s dead alright. How’s Jones?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma sighs, but before she can answer, Henry calls to them from the hallway: “Jones! Miss Swan! I’m coming in!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re clear, Mills,” Graham says, meeting the young man at the door, and they share a nod before both holstering their weapons. “One DB in the kitchen, and Jones is unconscious with a shoulder injury but still alive.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And the ambulance?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“On its way,” Emma says. “A few minutes passed between when I called you and them, so they should be here any minute.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if on cue, the two paramedics push their way into the apartment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sheriff,” one of them says gruffly, sharing a nod with Graham. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Booth. Officer Jones is behind the couch. And there’s a DB in the kitchen.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“DB’s are your jurisdiction,” he half-jokes, but rushes to where Killian is lying on the floor. “Emma,” he says, kneeling next to her on the floor, and Graham notices the way a soft blush rises to her cheeks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, August.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You did a great job with the towel. Probably saved his life.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks,” she mumbles, letting August take her place at his shoulder, and she reaches out to sweep Killian’s hair off  his forehead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll take it from here,” he says, but Emma is already pushing herself off the floor and wiping her hands on her already-bloodstained dress. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m… gonna change,” she says, her voice still soft, and she doesn’t meet anyone’s eye before she turns back towards the bedroom. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can take all the time you need, Miss Swan,” Graham says, and she stops but doesn’t turn towards them. “I’ll wait for you and you can ride to the hospital with me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But she’s already shaking her head. “No, I’m going with him.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not a question, but Graham still turns to August who confirms. After finishing his current task, the paramedic meets his eyes, nods with a shrug, and goes back to what he’s doing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She told herself she didn’t need to know. She even told Killian that, if given the choice, she didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know. But now that the choice is </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>, literally, dead in Killian’s kitchen, she can’t stop thinking about him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because what if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>someone from her past, as improbable as it is? What if all of this was because of her? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She takes a deep breath in and holds it, pausing from trying to wash Killian’s blood off her hands to look at herself in the mirror for a moment before releasing it. From what she can tell, though her dress is ruined, none of it soaked through to her bra, which she only thinks about since she doesn’t know if she has another here to change into. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anything to keep her mind off of what happened in the last ten minutes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t all come off, the blood staining her hands and her arms, but she does her best. It’s a warm day, but she has no idea what the temperature in the hospital is going to be like, so she opts for leggings and a plain white v-neck, but before she leaves the bedroom she pulls a blue and white flannel shirt from Killian’s closet overtop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She is silent as she crosses the apartment, her arms crossed over her chest to make her as small as she can, but she’s made up her mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Emma, are you—” Graham starts, turning away from where they’re moving Killian to a stretcher, but when she doesn’t stop, her path clear, he crosses the living room and tries to stop her. “I don’t think you want to do that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, Graham,” she says, shaking her head as she pushes past him and into the kitchen. “I’ve made up my mind, I need —” She swallows, stepping around the counter, but her attention is still on Graham. “I need to see him, I need to know.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she does turn her eyes down towards the body on the floor, though, everything stops: her words, her mind, her heart. Her breath catches in her throat. She might throw up — hell, she might faint. She needs— </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Air. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Deep breaths. Slow movements. The balcony. Fresh air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Holy shit. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re ready to go here, Miss Swan, if you still want to come with us.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But she knows she can’t. She can barely breathe, nonetheless make it down a flight of steps, so she shakes her head. “No, I — I’ll go with Graham. We need to talk to David.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though Graham offered to pick him up at the tavern, David insists on meeting her at the hospital. Between the slow night and the fear in Emma’s voice, he leaves almost immediately, much closer to the hospital than Killian’s apartment, but Graham and Emma still beat him there in the sheriff’s cruiser. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s a mess. An absolute mess, pacing in the waiting room, unable to stop moving — her feet, her hands, her mind, everything moving a mile a minute. Graham tried to get her to talk on the way there, but she couldn’t do it, wasn’t able to explain anything with David there. (Odd, he thought, but she’s certainly in a state of shock, so he doesn’t question it.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It only takes David a few minutes longer than them to get there, but she spends them trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together, trying to figure everything out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t help, though. If anything, it just makes her head spin faster, dizzying her to the point where she needs to sit down for a moment — a moment that finds a quick end when David finally walks through the doors. It’s obvious by both his crazed expression and the amount of his hair sticking up in different directions that he’s been worrying about her since she hung up the phone, which doesn’t surprise her, but there wasn’t much she could do about it, since she couldn’t fill him in over the phone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He greets Graham first, sharing a handshake with him before wrapping his arms around Emma. She’s always thought that was part of the reason she got along with him much better than James, even though she’s much similar to his gruff, silent personality. But David always seemed to understand her, was there for her emotionally the way no one else ever tried to be, and he truly has been pretty much her only best friend until Ruby came home to Storybrooke a few years’ past. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>Emma</span>
  <span>, please, tell me what’s going on,” he says after a moment, the silence of it all finally getting to him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So she does. She fills him in, letting Graham give a little background on the stalker case after she talks about going home with Killian that first night. She doesn’t share anything that doesn’t need to — he is still her brother, and she would be okay if both he and Graham just assumed that she and Killian’s relationship had never gotten physical. She sums up the past few weeks quickly, seeing him throughout the day, spending nights between their apartments, everything he needs to know, until she gets to earlier that night, to standing in the hallway helpless as she hears the gunshots, to hoping that it’s safe for her to go in even though all that greets her on the other side of the door is silence — and how she found Killian on the floor behind the couch with a bullet in the shoulder and the stalker in the kitchen, how she called 9-1-1 and they talked her through finding a towel and putting pressure on the wound until the paramedics got there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the end of it all, David sighs from the seat he decided to take next to Graham, even with Emma still pacing between them and Henry, now seated on the other side of the small aisle. “So everything’s okay, the stalker is taken care of and now we just have to wait for Killian to get out of surgery.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma shakes her head as she whips to face him, movement enough to make her vision go blurry for a moment. “Everything is not </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>, David,” she says, which grabs the attention of both men. “It all comes back to Neal.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The stalker. It was Felix.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham stands up, running his fingers through his hair. This is beginning to be too much for him. “Wait, you— you know the stalker?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At this, Emma nods, sitting in the seat he just stood from. “After I graduated from high school, I needed to get out of Storybrooke, but you already know that. So I went to Boston, and that’s where I met Neal. I got into the wrong crowd almost immediately, and he was — well, he was in charge of it. I knew he was older than me, but I never cared about how </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> older. I was seventeen and stupid and I though he was the answer to the thrilling life that I thought I needed. And I thought I loved him, which blinded me to what he was really doing, which was </span>
  <em>
    <span>serious </span>
  </em>
  <span>crime on top of all the gaslighting and manipulation towards me in particular. He would be out all night, come home all bloodied up but </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and told me I was insane when I tried to ask him about it. Plus he had all this money, which he said came from his dad, who was apparently the ambassador of something, some kind of Boston big shot, so I shrugged off the fact that he had so much money.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“His best friend was this guy named Felix, who was even more terrifying than he was, covered in scars and tattoos and he had a violent past, though Neal convinced me it was all in the past even though he was apparently wanted for murder or something near the end, which was when I found out what they were doing, what they had been doing the whole time we were together. But I was young and stupid and I thought I was in love, so I shrugged it off, especially when he talked about running away from it all, leaving behind his life in Boston that required so much from him to somewhere quiet, where we could live in peace after </span>
  <em>
    <span>one more big grab. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That’s what he called it. And I believed him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We were supposed to leave that night, so I met him at his father’s mansion, everything packed in my car. I just needed him to come home. But it was a set up, and they called the cops and claimed to have me under </span>
  <em>
    <span>citizen’s arrest</span>
  </em>
  <span>, though I wouldn’t have even had anywhere to run had I tried. I was seventeen, an orphan, technically family-less since Ruth had never finalized her adoption, so I went to prison until my eighteenth birthday and then came home. I’ve been trying to forget about Neal and his cronies for ten years, and since Ruth passed a few years ago, David is the only person that knows what happened in the year and a half I was gone, except that little bit I’ve told Killian over the past few weeks but seeing Felix’s face tonight, even seeing him dead in Killian’s kitchen, brought it all back.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David, who wrapped his arm around her shoulder near the beginning of her story, pulls her in closer, an awkward hug at an awkward angle, especially with the arms of their chairs between them, but it calms Emma nonetheless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think it’s over, though,” she says after a moment, voicing the fear that has chilled her since she recognized the body in Killian’s kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham is still trying to wrap his head around it all, and this certainly doesn’t help. Both he and Henry look back up at her. “Why? What?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everything Felix did, he either did because Neal told him to, or because he was trying to impress him. So if Felix really is behind all this, as you seem to believe he is—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He matches the sketches that some of his victims have given us, he’s definitely the stalker,” Graham cuts in, needing to have some semblance of control over the situation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma nods, but continues. “He either did it because Neal told him to, or he did it </span>
  <em>
    <span>for </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. Either way, I can’t help but think that wherever Felix is, Neal can’t be too far behind.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck.” The word slips through David’s teeth, sounding foreign to Emma in his voice, but it’s fitting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you think this Neal guy might be here in Storybrooke?” Henry asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hearing the words spoken out loud makes Emma want to scream, or cry, or curl up in a ball on the floor. Or all three. But that doesn't change the fact that: “Yes. Or he will be soon. He may even be listed as Felix’s next of kin.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t like making plans without Killian, since he has been so integral to her and her safety for weeks now, but hearing Graham and Henry trying to piece a plan together, one that involves </span>
  <em>
    <span>police escorts </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>uniforms stationed </span>
  </em>
  <span>outside David’s house — the only safe place for her to stay, obviously — begins to calm her still-pounding heart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They sit in silence for a while, each of them still trying to fit all the pieces together in a puzzle that seems totally impossible, but it’s not long before Dr. Whale comes out through the doors, a smile on his face that clashes with the tension in the waiting room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he senses something is off, he ignores it, spreading his arms wide in what can only be described as a </span>
  <em>
    <span>welcoming</span>
  </em>
  <span> gesture. Understandably,all four of them in the waiting room ignore it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have good news, and I have good news!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s much too happy for them. Graham rolls his eyes, as he does multiple times every time he has to deal with the doctor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When only Emma and Henry physically turn their attention towards him, he tones the theatrics down a bit, which might be all that he’s capable of. “Since it was a low-caliber bullet, it didn’t pass all the way through, stopped by his shoulder blade and the muscles around it. Normally we’d worry about irreversible nerve damage to his hand and arm, but since he already has a prosthetic, that's no concern to us and he should heal just fine, with some minor physical therapy to fully regain use of his shoulder.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can we see him?” Emma asks, her voice noticeably quieter than normal, making her seem smaller. Weaker. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dr. Whale purses his lips, his eyes turned to the floor — avoiding meeting any of their gazes. “He’s not awake yet from the anesthesia, and probably won’t be until morning.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Besides,” Graham starts, practically cutting him off. “You should get some rest tonight. Tomorrow I’m going to need to take formal statements from both of you, a lot of paperwork and a lot of formalities. It’ll probably take most of the day.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma sighs. “We’re supposed to meet with Mayor Mills tomorrow to go over a few cases.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone in the waiting room, including the doctor, watches in awe as Graham </span>
  <em>
    <span>blushes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, a soft smile gracing his face. “I’ll take care of Mayor Mills for you, don’t worry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shocked silence takes over the waiting room. David laughs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dr. Whale clicks his tongue. “Well. Mr. Jones will be ready for visitors in the morning,” he says, then turns away from them and pushes back through the double doors he came through. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David barks out another laugh, breaking the silence that has built around them, slipping his arm around Emma’s shoulder. “It appears our boy here has developed himself a little crush.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham rolls his eyes, but his blush deepens nonetheless. “For your information, Nolan — not that it’s any of your business anyway — it appears that she returns my ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>crush,</span>
  </em>
  <span>’” he says, putting his own air-quotes around the word. “And she and I have been on a few dates as our busy schedules have allowed.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Henry covers his face with his hands. David, apparently, can’t stop laughing. Emma’s not even sure how to feel, but can’t keep the smile off her face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham shakes his head. “Let’s get out of here, alright? The smell of antiseptic is upsetting my stomach.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was worried about not being able to sleep. It was much easier to convince herself that she was safe when she could feel Killian beside her, when she knew that if anything did go wrong, he would be right there to protect her, either from the ghosts in her mind or the ones that had recently manifested in the real world. But she can’t get rid of them, the memories of Neal from ten years ago and the nightmares that have plagued her since, not to mention the memory of Felix dead in Killian’s apartment. Sure, Graham told her not to, and he was probably right, but she </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>to, had to know. Did it make anything better? Questionable. In some ways, it definitely made it worse, the shadow of Neal hanging over her more than ever before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She can’t do this, though. Every time she closes her eyes, she’s met with Felix, or Neal, or one of his other cronies, or something from those long few months she spent in jail. Sighing, she pushes herself out of the bed, making her way to the guest bathroom as quietly as she can. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She turns on the faucet, needing some sort of sound to stop the ringing in her ears, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>screaming </span>
  </em>
  <span>in her head, and it almost works. Splashing the water on her face helps a little, too, helps calm the pounding of her heart. She runs her fingers through her hair, fisting some of the strands. For a moment, she thinks about showering again, even though she stood under the spray for far too long when they got home from the hospital, but she fears that nothing will make the nightmarish pictures on the other side of her eyelids disappear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But she has to try. So she shuts off the water, turning away from the mirror before she can meet her own eyes, and leaves the bathroom, deciding instead to try sleeping.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it almost works. She drifts off quickly, somehow, but it doesn’t last for too long before the piercing ring of her cell phone cuts through the silence of the house. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Graham Humbert</em>
  </b>
  <span>, the screen reads. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Her mind begins to race immediately, but it’s racing in circles around one main point: Neal Gold. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? What happened?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Emma, relax, please,” he breathes, though his own inability to do so is prevalent in his voice, even over the phone. “Killian is fine, he wasn’t hurt, but there’s been — there was an attempted attack at the hospital, and we got him. But Killian wants you here, just in case there’s someone else here. Henry’s waiting for you outside David’s.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See you soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then it hits her: “Wait!” she says, hoping it’s not too late, and Graham hums. “You said you got </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but who was it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” he says cooly, as if his next words aren’t going to rip her world apart. “It was Neal. Neal Gold.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Henry is unsurprisingly quiet during their ride to the hospital. She tries to ask him about what happened, tries to get some sort of answer out of him, but he seems as nervous as she is, staying completely silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they pull up to the hospital, she only has more questions, because the parking lot is </span>
  <em>
    <span>filled</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With police cars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More police cars than she thought Storybrooke had, honestly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because they’re not all from Storybrooke, she realizes. Some of them are only marked “Maine State Trooper,” some of them from other towns Emma recognizes from around Storybrooke. And then, she sees one from Boston. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What the hell happened here? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She walks past them all, past the officers that line the hallways, both uniformed and not. Past Graham outside Killian’s hospital room. And right up to Killian, wide awake in his hospital bed. She’s glad he’s okay, glad he’s awake, but she also </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>wants to hit his arm, wants to find an outlet for her anger even though she knows it should be anyone but him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell, Killian?” she says, trying not to yell and not quite succeeding. “What the hell happened?” She closes the door behind her, stopping Graham from following her into the room. She can’t deal with Graham right now, can’t deal with anything until she can wrap her head around what happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If that’s even possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian sighs, desperation in his eyes begging for her to come closer. “He showed up at the hospital, we think for Felix’s body, but he got here much too quickly if he came all the way from Boston, so now we’re thinking he must have been closer anyway and may have been a part of this whole thing from the start. Apparently he didn’t expect me to have protection, though, because I think his goal was to kidnap me, though it’s also illegal to bring a firearm into a hospital, no matter who your father is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of what she just learned surprises her, but it also doesn’t change the question on the tip of her tongue: “Where is he? I want to see him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian holds his hand out towards her. “Please, love, just… can it wait until tomorrow? Give everyone the night to figure out what the hell we’re going to do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something he’s not telling her. For a moment, her anger rages. All she wants to do is question him, ask him to explain what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> has been happening, but between Killian’s outstretched hand and the pleading in his exhausted blue eyes, she gives in and fills the rest of the space between herself and the hospital bed, her shoulders rising and falling with a slow breath. And then another. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>then </span>
  </em>
  <span>she meets his eyes, the same sparkling blue she remembers so vividly from the night they met. The same eyes that she has been drawn to since the first time she met them, and the same eyes that have, somehow, been honest with her the whole time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And this moment is no exception. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think we could both fit on this stupid hospital bed?” he mumbles, pulling Emma down for a kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally — </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> — she smiles. “I think we can at least try.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a little finagling, but they figure it out well enough. They may not be comfortable, but they’re together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian had hoped that having the night to sleep would change her mind, but it doesn’t. Though they both wake up refreshed in the small space of the hospital bed, he can tell there’s a myriad of questions sitting on the tip of her tongue just waiting to come out. She sits silently outside while he gets his bandages changed, not forcing any of her questions on Graham, says nothing as the three of them make their way down to get breakfast, but their table is as far as she makes it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to talk to him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no need for explanation. They both know exactly what she wants, but neither of them want to tell her that they’re not comfortable with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma,” he says softly, looking around the cafeteria before reaching across the table to cover one of her hands with his. “I don’t—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, come on,” she says, her voice filled with anger, not even letting Killian finish. “If nothing else, I deserve </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Felix </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed </span>
  </em>
  <span>people, tried to kill me, almost killed you. Felix never acted on his own, so this all has some connection to Neal and all I want to do is ask him why.” Finally, she notices that he’s shaking his head, and she turns to Graham, who can’t even bring himself to look at her. “Don’t deny me this. Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, Emma, you don’t understand—” Killian tries, but Emma cuts him off again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Believe it or not, Killian,” Emma says, not even trying to hide the anger in her voice. “It’s not up to you.” She stands up angrily, almost toppling her chair to the floor. “I don’t need your permission to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so whether you’re joining me or not, I’m going to talk to Neal.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In her storming away, she misses the glance Killian and Graham share, the screaming in Graham’s eyes, but his hand as it stops the elevator door from closing stops her rage in its tracks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, listen,” Graham says, stepping in the elevator beside her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But listen she doesn’t, rolling her eyes as Graham holds the doors open for Killian, moving much slower than usual with his IV attached. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not taking no for an answer. I hope you know that. I hope you both know that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s more difficult than that. We have to—” Emma doesn’t miss the nervous way he gulps, the way his eyes never leave Killian once he comes into view, even once he steps into the elevator with them. “When we get back to Jones’ room, we have to talk about this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s nothing to talk about.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian reaches down to take her hand, which catches her off guard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But not nearly as much as when he speaks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s dead, Emma.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She freezes. Every muscle in her body — her heart — even the rushing of her blood through her body. Everything stops. Between Killian’s confession and the stopping of the elevator, she almost collapses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You had to tell her here?” Graham asks, which only makes the world spin around her a little faster, and Killian must sense her unease, wrapping his arm around her waist and leading her out of the elevator. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She wasn’t going to stop arguing with us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This… just makes her angry. This time, she does punch him in the arm. “Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> kidding me? You’ve been keeping this from me? Both of you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know how to tell you, love,” Killian tries, his voice soft as he reaches for her hand again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t take it, crossing her arms over her chest. “That’s not an excuse. You could have told me. You could have told me on the phone when you called, you could have told me when I got here, or at any point this morning, and you decided not to.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither of them have anything to say, apparently, silently walking down the hospital hallway on either side of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rightfully, she’s angry. That’s an understatement, really; she’s far more than angry, a whole slew of emotions that she’s so overwhelmed by that she can’t possibly articulate them all. Even she doesn’t notice the tears streaming down her cheeks until she sniffles, which catches the attention of the men flanking her who, until now, were trying to avoid turning their attention to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Swan,” Killian whispers, trying to wrap his arm around her waist, but she shakes her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t—” she starts, pushing his advances away, and she speeds up her walk to move ahead of them. “I just need some space.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the last thing she wants, really, to be alone, but she knows that she needs space from the two of them. There’s a possibility that she’s never been more angry in her life, even with the man who sent her to jail for his own crimes — a man who is now laying on a slab in the morgue in the basement of the hospital. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man whose death should not have been hidden from her. A man whose death she </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>should have been told about instead of lied to, treated like a child, too fragile to know the truth. She needs to talk to someone, someone she trusts, someone she can vent to knowing that she won’t be judged for being angry at Killian and Graham, because she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>they were doing what they thought was best for her, whatever kind of masculine, overprotective bullshit that is. She needs—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raises her eyes from the ground, taking her anger out on the door at the bottom of the stairs and out into the lobby, and finds the answer standing by the exit, arms crossed over his chest as he stares out the front window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“David?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns around, eyes wide as if seeing Emma is the last thing he expected. But then he smiles, and she feels a little better already, some of the weight somehow lifted off her chest. “Hey, Em.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing here?” she asks, though the answer is pretty obvious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I decided to come down and check on you, see how everything is going.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’ve just been… standing by the window, hoping that I come downstairs?” She manages a half-smile, even with the anger that’s still surging through her veins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David, of course, laughs at this, leaning back against the large window. “No, no, I called Graham when I got here and he said you were on your way down anyway.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This makes her smile grow a slight but barely noticeable amount. “That… makes much more sense.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, tell me, what’s going on? What happened last night?” He wraps his arm around her shoulder, but all Emma can do is shake her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She just needs to get out of the hospital for a bit, away from the sickening antiseptic scent and the headache-inducing phosphorescence and the thought of what happened here the night before. “Can we get out of here? Even just outside?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David pushes no further, agreeing immediately with a vigorous nod. “Of course. I hate hospitals. Let’s go grab a coffee down the block.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, Emma finally feels relieved enough — relaxed enough — to actually smile at her brother, especially once they are through the doors and out into the fresh morning air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, she says nothing, not even sure where to start, or how to say the words she knows she has to say. But David doesn’t push her, just walks slowly beside her with his hands in his pockets and his eyes turned down save a patient glance at her every few steps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until, finally, the silence and the words racing through her mind get the best of her, and she has to let them out before she explodes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neal showed up at the hospital last night,” she says, refusing to raise her eyes from the pavement. “Graham said he was probably here for Felix’s body as his next of kin, but he showed up much too fast to have been in Boston, so they think he was here already. But instead of going to the morgue, he tried to attack Killian, which didn’t go over too well considering he’s a police officer and was guarded by the entire Storybrooke force, plus a few troopers that Graham called in for back up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words stop as David holds open the door to the small cafe, unsure whether she should continue now that she could be overheard by another patron. But the only other patrons are two state troopers sitting in one corner, their hushed words shared as whispers as they both lean across the table between them; and Lily, the barista, who takes out her headphones when she notices the door has opened again. Emma pauses the story as they order their drinks, waiting until they are seated together at the opposite end of the room as the troopers to continue — and to say the words that she finds lodged in her throat when she is ready to start again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They shot him. Killed him. Graham said he came armed, which was really a stupid decision on his part, to bring a gun into a hospital filled with cops, and normally I would be surprised that he made a mistake that stupid, though I can only imagine how off the rails he went when he learned Felix was dead. And that’s assuming he’s anywhere near as level-headed today as he was when I knew him, which I seriously doubt.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Em,” David says softly, reaching across the table to rest the tips of his fingers on her arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprising even herself, she manages a small laugh under her breath as she shakes her head. “But that’s — that’s not even the worst of it.” Until the words start pouring out of her mouth, she wasn’t even convinced that she was going to share this part with David, but once they start, she is both unable and unwilling to stop them, hoping that letting everything out at the same time will aid in her feeling better. “They lied to me about it, hid the truth from me until this morning. Both of them, Graham and Killian. Graham told me he was there, but it wasn’t until just a few minutes ago, really, that they decided to finally tell me the truth, the whole story, the fact that he’s dead. Killian didn’t even sound convinced that he wanted me to know in the first place, just kept refusing when I asked to talk to him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hangs her head in defeat, in anger, trying to keep everything from rushing back over her all at once. Takes a sip of her hot chocolate. Waits for David to find some sort of response, to analyze and rationalize all the information she just laid on him the way he always seems able to do — she can tell by the low knit of his eyebrows, by the slow scratching of his left hand through his three-day scruff while his right index finger taps against his coffee cup. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that anything I say will just be something you’ve already told yourself through your anger over all of this: that they were just trying to protect you, to keep you calm and free from worry—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She almost feels bad, cutting him off, because he has always been the most level-headed and the calmest of them all, and this situation has already proven no different. “I would have been far less worried if they told me he was dead instead of leading me to believe he was locked in the single Storybrooke jail cell, which he certainly would have viewed as a joke after the cells and prisons he’s found his way out of his whole life.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, David just nods. He knew this, too, of course. “Well, I don’t have to tell you that Killian cares about you. Graham, too, though in more of a sisterly way. And they don’t know Neal and his history the way you do, so they probably thought that it would be easier for you to learn that he was dead after you got some rest, especially after the stress of last night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs, taking another sip of her hot chocolate. Because he’s right. Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s right, it really isn’t that much of a surprise. “So, what am I supposed to do?” she whispers, her eyes turned down to her mug. “I just stormed out on them, and now I’m just supposed to go back like that never happened?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In place of an answer, David wets his bottom lip, his eyebrows high on his forehead. Emma already knows the answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now she just has to go do it.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Her knuckles against the half-open door are soft, almost as soft as her voice when she says, “Hey, Killian," and her sigh is one of relief when she sees Killian is by himself, with the sheriff nowhere to be seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She doesn’t think she could face both of them together right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shutting the door behind her, she tries her hardest to smile at him, knowing that it probably isn’t as believable as she wants it to be. The smile that Killian has for her, though, is nothing but genuine, even with the tense air between them. Because of course he's still happy to see her, even though she stormed off earlier that morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello, Swan," he says, extending his uninjured hand out towards her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Listen, Killian," she says, filling the space between them at the same time Killian says, "Look, about what happened."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hopes this smile is more genuine than the last. "Can I? Please?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaning to sit on the edge of the bed beside him, she takes a deep breath, but looks everywhere in the room except his face. It’s not the first time she’s bared her heart to Killian Jones in the few short weeks since she met him at her brothers’ bar, but something about what she has to tell him now seems particularly difficult, and looking into his deep blue eyes — eyes that have been nothing but sincere to her since that first night at the bar — will only make it worse. "I can't — I'm not sure why you did what you did, but you know what? I talked to David and realized that I don't really care. Why you thought that hiding Neal's death from me was the best option, I'm not sure, but I know that's why you did it. And I appreciate it. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, really, and no matter how angry I am about this, it doesn’t come anywhere close to how thankful I am for everything else you’ve done since the moment I met you, really.” Finally, she allows herself to look at his face, right into those </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn</span>
  </em>
  <span> blue eyes, and his soft smile cuts right into the deepest part of her. She turns her gaze away again, but tightens her grip on his hand. “I don’t even want to think about what could have happened to me if you weren’t so adamant about protecting me, what Felix could have done, what Neal almost certainly would have done.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he says softly, letting go of her hand only to reach up and rest his palm against her cheek. “You don’t have to think about that. You don’t have to worry about anything. I understand why you were upset with me, and in hindsight, I’ve realized that I would have felt the same. You deserved to know about Mr. Gold, I should have told you, but—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s nothing we can do about that now. If we… if we can move past this, I’d be more than content.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles, and it’s one that she can’t help but return. “Deal.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t know what else to say, what else needs to be said, so instead, she acts, leaning to fill the space between them and press her lips against his. It’s soft, between her worrying that she’ll hurt him and his being caught off-guard — and doesn’t last long, cut short by a soft knock behind her followed immediately by the creaking of the door as it swings open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good news, Mr. Jones,” Dr. Whale says, bounding into the room without looking up from his clipboard, closely followed by Graham and Henry. “Between the x-rays and your strength tests from this morning, I see no need to keep you here any longer. Usually we’d be more worried about nerve damage in your hand from an injury like this one, but…” He shrugs, a sly smile on his face as if it’s not the third time he’s made that joke since Killian's arrival. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, ha, ha,” Killian responds dryly, lifting his uncovered blunted arm a few inches for emphasis.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whale ignores his comment, eyes back on the clipboard. “I’m going to want to see you next week to check on the healing progress, but other than that, you’re free to go, detective, unless you have any questions.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian shakes his head. “Thank you, doctor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whale nods, but it’s Graham who speaks up. “I’ll have Henry give you two a ride back to Emma's apartment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I just have the cruiser? You and young Mills can go to the station together, and Emma and I can just—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, I don’t—” Dr. Whale cuts in, suddenly interested in their conversation. “I’m not sure I feel comfortable with you driving until we’re sure you have full use of that arm, Jones.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Killian just shakes his head, laughing softly under his breath. “I haven’t used my left hand to drive for almost ten years now, so I can’t imagine it will be a problem now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whale thinks on this for a moment, his eyebrows making a low </span>
  <em>
    <span>V</span>
  </em>
  <span> on his forehead. The room sits in a still anticipatory silence for a moment. And then he nods, and Killian releases a breath he had no reason to be holding. “Yeah. Okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Killian turns back to Graham. “So? What do you think, sheriff?” The corner of his lips tick up in a momentary smile, knowing the most direct way into Graham's heart is by calling him </span>
  <em>
    <span>sheriff</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Graham, however, isn’t the one that responds. Instead, it’s Henry, his hands on his hips. “Bet you’re glad he — how did you word it, Jones? — </span>
  <em>
    <span>sicced the rookie</span>
  </em>
  <span> on you, or else you wouldn't even have a squad car.” But his facade fails, a slight smile working its way across his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s contagious, spreading first to Killian and then Graham, who wraps his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Come on, </span>
  <em>
    <span>rookie</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he says with a laugh. “Give the detective your keys and we can head out of here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry rolls his eyes, his smile only growing, but reaches into the pocket of his pants, pulling out the keys to the cruiser, which he tosses to Emma. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll call you later to check in, Jones,” Graham says, then leaves the room, his arm still wrapped around Henry’s shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, Whale clears his throat, then nods. “As I said, I’ll send a nurse in with your discharge paperwork.” And then he, too, turns on his heel and leaves them in the hospital room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Emma turns to Killian, holding the keys up in front of her. “Let’s get ready to get you out of here and go home” she says with a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Home. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He responds with a smile of his own, Emma notices something in his expression, something that she hasn’t noticed since that first night, since talking to him outside the bar: an air of freedom, of happiness, not masked with worry or concern or the hardness of his need to protect her. It’s a genuine smile, something she never realized had disappeared after those first few conversations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s back, a weight lifted off of his shoulders and a light returned into his bright eyes. She hopes it stays around for a very long time.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian’s never been a fan of silence, for as long as he can remember. That’s part of the reason he’s been drawn to the sea, he believes: it’s never silent, even at its calmest, and is always able to distract him from even the most gnawing thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So the silence that fills the car on their way back to Emma’s apartment, which he’s sure others would find calming, has the opposite effect on him. His left foot is bouncing against the floor of the car, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel, and his mind running a mile a minute — riddled with questions and worries, all surrounding his relationship with Emma. </span>
</p><p><span>He has so many questions for her, so many loose ends that he wants to tie up, hopefully in a clean, perfect bow. Even if that first night had nothing to do with the stalker</span><em><span>, </span></em><span>their relationship became</span> <span>one of necessity, and that’s not something that he can easily overlook. He steals a glance at her in the passenger seat, just for a moment, and the pounding of his heart slows slightly when he notices just how calm and content she looks, a soft smile on her face as she scrolls through something on her cell phone. He needs to know that she still reciprocates his feelings, feelings that are still very real and very potent to him. He still feels drawn to her, just as he did that first night — just as he has every time he’s looked at her, thought about her, been near her since then. </span></p><p>
  <span>But the words won’t come. As much as he hates silence, he can’t bring himself to break it. So he doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She does, though at first, it’s not with her words, but with her stomach, which growls loud enough for him to hear over the engine before she speaks. “Can we, uh, get something to eat?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, he’s speechless. This is, by far, the furthest thing from his reeling mind, but once he starts thinking about it, he realizes just how hungry he is, also. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Somewhere other than Granny’s, though,” she adds. “If we go to Granny’s, everyone will want to talk to us, know what happened, and I don’t think…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She trails off, but Killian takes over: “I certainly don’t have the energy for that right now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns to him, a soft smile on her face, and he returns it after a quick glance. “Exactly.” A beat passes, both of them hoping for an answer to come from the other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another beat passes. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The problem with small towns, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Killian says to himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about the bar? They’re technically open for lunch, though no one ever really comes around until after the work day is over.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect,” Killian responds, flicking on the turn signal to change their route to their new destination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it is, really. When they walk in, the cruiser parked in Emma’s spot outside her apartment building, they find only James behind the bar, putting away a few racks of dishes, and Mulan sitting on one of the barstools, a book held open in front of her. They both start at the sound of the bell over the door, though, and Killian is immediately set on edge by the two of them turning their attention to him — and can’t even imagine how uncomfortable he would have been at Granny’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we, uh, get lunch?” Emma asks, her voice quiet. At first, Killian’s not even sure that James heard her over the sound of the television behind him, though when James does finally nod his head, Killian realizes he must just be asking himself what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell </span>
  </em>
  <span>they’re doing there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be right over,” Mulan says, but makes no move to get off the barstool, her attention even going back to the pages of the book in front of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Killian minds in the least. He doesn’t want anyone’s attention on him, not even the waitress serving them lunch, not even someone like Mulan who he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>is smart enough to not ask them about what happened when they're so obviously trying to avoid nosy people. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Emma says back, her voice no louder than before, but James speaks up as she moves to walk to her usual secluded corner seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s an innocent enough question, really, even though Killian has no idea just how much James knows about the events of the past day. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He must know enough</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma stops in her tracks for just a moment, turning her attention up to her brother before returning it to the rough wooden floorboards, and then takes another step. “Just need a place to grab something to eat that’s not full of people, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though Emma misses it, Killian notices the soft, brotherly smile that crosses James’ expression for a moment, one that takes his mind back to his own brother, even momentarily: it is the smile of someone happy to be able to help, even if they do so by simply leaving them alone. “Let me know if you need anything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma nods to herself, missing this moment of genuine care on her brother’s face, and then slides into the booth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has so many questions for her, questions about everything he's learned over the past day, questions about whether she reciprocates the feelings he feels so strongly — but the question that he hears leave his mouth is, "So I guess you're not as close to James as you are David, then?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, he can tell this is also far from any of the questions Emma expected him to ask, her brow deeply furrowed when she turns her eyes up to him briefly. But she answers it anyway. "It was like that from the start, from when I first came to live with them. James was part of the popular crowd, one of the cool kids, and I… I didn't even have any friends. But David was much more welcoming, much more open, and we just started to get along much better from the very beginning. It's never changed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian nods, thinking again of Liam. Liam was both David and James at once: Killian's best friend most days, spending all of their time at home with one another — but once they got to school, it would be as if Killian didn't exist. The four years between them limited the amount of time they spent in the same areas in school, but when Liam was around his friends, Killian always felt like he was a different person. The older Killian got, the better their off-homestead relationship became, especially after the passing of their mother, which brought them much closer, only for Liam to leave for college, and leave Killian behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a brother, right?” she asks into the silence of the bar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Had,” he snaps, much harsher than he means to, so he clears his throat and says it again. “Had. He died in the military. Almost ten years ago now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The change on her face is immediate, realizing that what she hoped would be a simple, light conversation is far from her expectation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” she mumbles before turning her attention towards Mulan, who approaches their table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” she says, searching her pockets for a pen, unaware of the awkward moment she has just walked into the middle of. “Kitchen’s not fully open yet, but James said to just order what you want and he’ll make sure it gets done for you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma manages a half-smile, probably thankful for Mulan’s interruption of their conversation. “Thanks. I’ll just have a water for now. And a, uh, chicken sandwich with a basket of onion rings.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mulan scratches a few things into her order pad, then turns to Killian. “That sounds perfect, actually,” he says, but keeps his attention turned towards the table. With a nod, Mulan walks away, and he can feel Emma’s eyes set on him. He’s angry with himself, upset that he let himself get angry with her — and embarrassed, more than anything else, really. He wants to look up at her, to let her know that his anger has everything to do with himself and nothing to do with her. Wants to smile at her, ease her fears — but he can do </span>
  <em>
    <span>none </span>
  </em>
  <span>of it, can’t even bring himself to look up from the dark spot on the table that's become the point of his focus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until she changes the subject:  ˆ¨”Thank you for all you’ve done.” Her voice is soft, but caring, and in the silence that follows, he is finally able to raise his eyes to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He even musters the energy to smile, a difficult task when every fiber of his being is torn between being angry at himself or hyper focused on the memory of Liam that popped into his head unexpectedly. “Of course, love. I’ve only done what I promised to do from the start.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head. “No, it’s been much more than that. You’ve been — you haven’t just—” She takes a moment to find the words, and the least he can do is give her that moment. “You promised to protect me, and you certainly did that. But it’s so much more than that. You’ve cared about me in a way… in a way that no one has done, for as long as I can remember. That’ s more important to me than anything else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to talk about this, Emma. Talk about us.” It’s not the right response for the moment, changes the mood of everything immediately, but it slips through his teeth nonetheless, and it takes everything he has not to physically reach between them and try to pull the words back. She doesn’t respond, either because she can’t, or because she’s trying to gather her own words, but he continues anyway: “I know what my feelings are, but for as long as we’ve been together, it’s been out of necessity, and if you don’t — if you’ve changed your mind about—” but Emma stops him, reaching across the table to take his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many times do I have to tell you, Jones? I want to be with you. If I didn’t, I would have changed our situation long ago. I wanted to be with you the first night I met you in this very corner, and that hasn’t changed, no matter the </span>
  <em>
    <span>necessity</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, he doesn’t think he could stop the smile forming on his lips if he tried. “Good,” he whispers, turning his hand under hers so he can lace his fingers through hers. “We’re in agreement then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A comfortable silence settles around them, the music from the bar’s speakers calming Killian’s mind. It’s different than the silence from the car in every way, even if Killian still has things he wants to know about her. But sitting across from her in their corner booth, holding her hand and humming along with the music, is enough for him in the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For once, they are not in a hurry. There is no shadow lingering over their relationship, no threat of danger quickening the beat of his heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is only </span>
  <em>
    <span>them, </span>
  </em>
  <span>him and Emma, and all the time — and glasses of rum, and picnics in the park, and baskets of onion rings — in the world. </span>
</p>
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